


red collar, blue collar

by sneck



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alpha Tim Drake, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BDWW 2020, BDWW2020, Bottom Damian Wayne Week, BottomDamianWayneWeek2020, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian is 17 in this idk if that's underage, Damian is a smartass sub ok, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Damian Wayne, Omega Verse, Robincest, Sexual Tension, mention of attempted sexual assault, weird A/B/O universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27356527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneck/pseuds/sneck
Summary: “Where are you going? There’s a shower down here!” Dick calls after Damian, who ignores him.  The grandfather clock closes after him and Dick shakes his head in bewilderment.  “He’s been doing that a lot lately.  I hope nothing’s wrong.”Tim spares Dick an amused look while he dumps his own sweaty clothes in the bin for washing.  “What, ignoring you?  Sorry to break it to you, Dick, but Damian’s been doing that for the last seven years.”-In which Damian eventually learns that he likes taking orders.written for BottomDamianWayneWeek2020
Relationships: Tim Drake/Damian Wayne
Comments: 75
Kudos: 302
Collections: BottomDamianWayneWeek2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh so weird A/B/O is a thing for me now I guess?? I really really need to write other fic, but Bottom Damian Wayne Week happened and well heck I couldn't resist.
> 
> Damian is 17. That may be underage depending on where you live so I'm tagging it to be safe.
> 
>  **A/B/O traditional dynamics or otherwise** / ~~daddy kink~~ / **sex pollen-fuck or die** / ~~Medieval|Royalty AU~~

Tim rolls onto his back on the mat, eyes stinging with sweat. “Gee, thanks for going easy on me, Dick.”

“Somebody’s gotta keep you on your toes.” Dick falls on his rump beside him, similarly drenched. “But I think I’m done for today. Wanna go up and see if Alfred will let us sneak some of that cheesecake he’s got in the fridge before breakfast?”

Tim snorts. “That didn’t work when you were twelve, why do you think it’ll work now?” He wipes his neck and feels the edge of his patch curling. _Note to self: look into more sweat resistant adhesives._

When they get to the locker room to change out of their workout clothes, they find Damian there stripping off his Robin costume. He’s covered head to toe in soot.

Dick grins at him, “Tough patrol tonight?”

Damian peels his domino off with a grimace, leaving a mask-shaped patch of clear skin on his filthy face. Tim does _not_ laugh.

“We had a run in with Firefly,” Damian grumps, trying to wipe some of the soot from his cheek and just making it worse. He wrinkles his nose. “I need a shower.” He throws the remainder of his suit in the laundry bin and, without another word, heads for the stairs in only his shorts and an undershirt.

“Where are you going? There’s a shower down here!” Dick calls after Damian, who ignores him. The grandfather clock closes after him and Dick shakes his head in bewilderment. “He’s been doing that a lot lately. I hope nothing’s wrong.”

Tim spares Dick an amused look while he dumps his own sweaty clothes in the bin for washing. “What, ignoring you? Sorry to break it to you, Dick, but Damian’s been doing that for the last seven years.”

“Haha. No, I mean refusing to shower in front of any of us. It started a few months ago, he just goes straight to his room after patrol or training. You don’t think he’s hiding an injury again, do you?”

Tim snorts, “Dick, he’s seventeen. Can’t you think of any _other_ reason a teenager might want some alone time in the shower?”

Dick’s face contorts and Tim can almost see him trying to scrub his brain of the mental image of Damian teasing the weasel upstairs. Tim laughs.

A smelly workout shirt smacks him in the face. “You are an evil, evil man.” Still looking disturbed, Dick slings a towel over his bare chest. “C’mon, chuckles, time to hit the showers.”

Tim runs fingers through his hair (he needs to get it cut) as a pretense for prodding the back of his neck. The patch slips a little, loosened by moisture and exertion. 

“Hm, you know, I think Damian had the right idea,” Tim lowers his voice suggestively, “I’m feeling a long, luxurious soak in my big private bathtub.”

“Tim, oh my _god._ I hate you. _”_

“I may not be seventeen anymore, but a man has needs-”

A pair of sweatpants to the face muffles his laughter.

-

It’s a relief to peel the patch off his neck. He always forgets how uncomfortable it is until he takes it off at the end of the day. He’s careful to keep his bare hands from making contact with his mark as he scrubs his neck with a wet washcloth. 

Most people only have to worry about others touching their marks, but Tim isn’t most people.

Drying himself off after his shower (he’d been joking about the bath), his eyes are drawn to the blue band around his neck that marks him as an Alpha. It looks like it’s been painted on, but Tim knows the pigment is skin-deep.

Tim had gotten his band unusually early at sixteen. The rich blue of an Alpha--and a _very_ high expression one, at that--had been a shock. He’d never thought of himself as particularly dominant, but Bruce says that anyone who’s had to face him in the boardroom would disagree. Other than Bruce, the only ones in the family who know are Alfred and Jason--who'd only found out because of that time he slit Tim’s throat. Jason’s never shown Tim his, but he suspects he’s like most people, somewhere between Alpha blue and Omega red. A warm purple, maybe.

Most of the family falls in the center of the spectrum, their purple bands casually covered by high collars and long hair, but never hidden. They’re what society calls ‘Normies,’ people who don’t have a strong instinctual pull in either direction. Dick’s band is a sort of pink violet, and Steph’s is a bluer purple than she’d prefer (she wanted eggplant). Though they’re Normies, their bands are heavily saturated and the edges can be seen from the front, curving around three quarters of their neck, making them high expression and more sensitive to Mark-Touching. The two of them have to guard their necks carefully. Damian’s still hasn’t come in, but Tim will bet anything that he’ll be as dark a blue as his father, and Cass is the only Omega in the family. And even though she’s low expression, the faint blush of a mark barely covering the back of her nape, she still wears a clear patch over it to protect from unwanted contact, just like the rest of them.

Well, the rest of them except for Tim.

Soon after his mark came in, he started creating custom patches to make it look like a perfectly average purple half band. Because Tim would rather people think he's a harmless Normie than know that he's a High Alpha with a vibrant blue band that goes all the way around his neck, with no end and no beginning. The only mark he’s ever seen that’s darker and bluer is Bruce’s and, as far as Tim knows, Bruce is the only Alpha in his life who outranks him. He understands Tim’s need to hide, to not intimidate everyone he meets. He’s even gone as far as to suggest Tim submit a patent for his ‘privacy patch.’

Tim peels a fresh one off the backer paper and carefully smooths it over his neck. It blends into his skin seamlessly. The purple looks like it belongs there. And just like that he’s normal again. 

Normal. Alpha. Omega. Terms borrowed from canine pack behavior hundreds of years ago that just stuck. But despite the names, it’s got nothing to do with family groups or breeding (though sex is often a part of it). It’s more about dominance and submission. When marks are touched, it triggers these instincts--and more often than not gets you really horny, which makes sex very interesting.

For Tim, though, it’s a curse. The few times he’d tried Mark-Touching in bed, it had frightened his partners so badly they had to stop. Tim’s touch strips away all control until the only thing left is the need to submit. And when Tim’s mark is touched, the rush of power makes it hard for him to remember why he should hold back.

He’s lucky he knows so many non-humans who are immune to his weird biology, or he’d never get laid.

It’d be nice if he could at least use it to take down bad guys. But even if there was anyone stupid enough to commit crimes with their neck uncovered, Tim’s not about to get some henchman gagging for him just to win a fight. Gross.

But Tim’s weirdness isn’t _completely_ useless. High Alphas (or Big Dick Doms, as people on the internet like to call them) have the rare ability to assert their dominance without touch. If Tim shifts his stance _just so_ , puts a little power behind his voice, he can have even the most belligerent businessmen ducking their heads and capitulating to his every demand. He doesn’t like to abuse it, but he can admit that it comes in handy.

(Theoretically, Bruce can do it too, but Tim’s never seen it. But it’s not like he needs it. He’s scary enough without any kind of Alpha Persuasion.)

And while this secret ability has helped him wipe the floor with B-grade villains from time to time, it’s pretty useless against the big bads. Harley’s neck is a bubblegum pink, but Tim’s seen her giggle in the face of the snarling Alpha choking her before caving his head in with her cartoonishly oversized mallet. Zsasz cut his out, so he’s happy to strut around shirtless and Selena wears a bell and collar, enticingly flimsy protection that says, _‘just try it.’_ Harvey’s is split down the middle of his nape, half red, half blue--Tim’s always wondered how that works. Joker’s is _green_ and nobody knows what the _fuck_ that means.

On the whole, Tim _wishes_ he was just a ‘Nilla Normie. So far the problems that come with being a High Alpha far outweigh the benefits.

But, he supposes, at least he’s not an Omega. _They’re_ the ones who really got short changed by the whole evolutionary deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of exposition in this one, a bit in the next, too. This isn't going to be too long of a story, maybe...three more parts at most?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very veeeery brief and vague reference to attempted sexual assault in this one.

A few weeks after Damian turned seventeen, he developed a rash on his neck. He didn’t think much of it, scratching absentmindedly at breakfast, at school, on patrol. Alfred had sent him to bed with some hydrocortisone cream and Damian figured that was that.

When he looked in the mirror the next morning and saw the deep crimson around his neck-- _all_ the way around, shit, shit, _shit_ \--his heart plummeted to his knees. And just like that, his life as he knew it was over.

Then he spent the next several hours trapped in the grip of his first Omega Heat, a state of intense arousal following the appearance of a mark. From what Damian’s read, they’re only supposed to last a few hours, so when five passed with no change, he knew something was wrong. He’d had to convince Alfred that he was too sick to get out of bed for nearly two days whilst behind his locked door he became mindless with impotent lust, sobbing into his soiled sheets for _something_ he couldn’t understand.

For weeks after, he denied it. He refused to believe he could be an Omega. Both his parents had been Alphas--his father was a _High Alpha_ \--so the idea that Damian's mark would be anything less than the darkest of blues... Unconscionable. Alphas like his father are blessed with the ability to bend others to their will. There’s no advantage to being an Omega. They are the _bottom_ of the evolutionary hierarchy, and Damian's heard more than enough ‘bottom’ jokes at school to know what people think about them. Omegas are stupid. Helpless. _E_ _asy_ . Damian could not allow anyone to say those things about _him._

(A little voice at the back of his mind points out that _Cassandra_ is an Omega and _Cassandra_ is not weak. But Damian stubbornly argues back that Cassandra barely even qualifies as an Omega, so it is not the same at all.)

So he wore turtlenecks and avoided the family and secretly looked for discreet shops in seedy neighborhoods that sold thick leather collars and neck shields for people like him. But it was during an excursion to one such neighborhood that Damian learned the hard way what it really means to be an Omega. Distracted by his inner turmoil, he let his guard down for just a moment and someone got lucky. The barest brush of fingers against his neck and he went limp like a ragdoll. The utter humiliation (and terror) of having to be saved from his would-be rapist by a passing _civilian_ sickened him. He raced home and threw up in the downstairs toilet as soon as his knees hit the tiles. 

Swearing it would never happen again, he's taken to wearing concealer patches at all times, only taking them off to shower. It’s an ordeal keeping this secret. He has to use two patches to cover his entire neck because they don’t _make_ them that long, and he has to use makeup to blend it into his skin because they _also_ don’t make them in his skin-tone. 

He hates it. The few minutes he’s forced to see that stripe of red after showers boils his blood.

He’s kept the shameful truth from everyone but Jon, whose mark may not be as dark or as long as Damian’s, but is still a washed out red that makes him a fellow victim of the genetic roulette and therefore safe to confide in. Sometimes Jon's sympathetic ear is the only thing that gets him through the days and he's grateful that he has one person he can trust to not reject him. 

It's woefully ironic that the part of him that fears rejection from his family over this horrible weakness is the same part of him that desperately hungers for approval and _makes_ him weak. He's aware of the way he reaches for affection however he can get it and thrills when his father looks upon him with pride, when Grayson tells him he’s done a good job. He _knows_ this about himself. He's accepted it. He’d just never expected it to translate into... _this_.

He doesn’t _think_ he likes to be dominated. His whole heart rebels at the very idea. Damian _hates_ being told what to do. When has he ever followed an order without challenging it first? Who would he trust enough to allow them complete control over him? He’d once held such blind loyalty for his mother and grandfather, but never again. Not even Father, who he seems to disappoint daily, has earned his total obedience.

But. Grayson. Damian trusts _him_ , would follow him anywhere. If Dick told him to jump into an active volcano, he wouldn’t even hesitate. He’d rather cut off his own arm than disappoint Dick Grayson.

So, yes, he’ll admit that there is something...freeing about being around Dick. The palpable relief of giving over control. The incredible feeling of being owned, chosen, loved. Damian is _his_ Robin and the warm contentment he feels at that is damning.

Is he really surprised his mark came out red?

The only saving grace is that there are no Alphas in the house besides Father, who he is required to submit to anyway (though he doesn’t have to be graceful about it). Of course, all of them are still ‘higher’ up on the spectrum than Damian, so any one of them could reduce him to a mindless fool if they ever touched his mark by accident. It’s a serious concern. His siblings are lazy about coverings at home and since being family nullifies the sexual reaction, Mark-Touching happens far too frequently for comfort. He’s seen Stephanie playfully flick Grayson in the neck to make him trip over his suddenly wobbly knees. He always recovers before he can lose his balance, laughing at their silly game.

If that happened to Damian, he wouldn’t recover quickly and he wouldn’t be laughing.

Drake is the only one in the family who can keep his hands to himself, no doubt a happy consequence of being a neurotic control freak. Happy for Damian, because there’s no one on the planet he’d least want to submit to than _Timothy Drake_. 

\--

After a quick detour to check his concealer patch in the men’s room mirror, Damian strides into the office with all the confidence of a Wayne and the menace of an Al Ghul. Interns flee before him. It's enough to make him almost smile.

“You enjoy that way too much.”

Damian turns and looks up at Drake, cursing the half inch the other still has on him. At the rate he’s growing, he’ll be taller than him soon, but not soon enough. His almost-smile turns into a scowl.

He glares at the man's neck, “You’re not wearing it.”

Tim’s face freezes almost imperceptibly, a hand rising to feel along the edge of his shirt collar. "Uh, what?"

Damian rolls his eyes. “Your _tie_ , Drake. The one you promised Brown you would wear as punishment for losing your juvenile little wager.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Tim rolls his eyes, shoulders relaxing a fraction. After a quick rummage through his pocket, he plucks out and unrolls an absolute _abomination_ of a tie. The pattern of fat winged babies in loincloths shooting heart-shaped arrows is nauseating to look at and every inch of space not occupied by babies has been filled with glittery pink hearts. Tim shakes it out and a few grains of glitter fall to the carpet.

Damian blanches, “Brown _paid money_ for this?”

“She said it was a ploy to get me into the holiday spirit.”

“For Valentine’s Day? It is October.”

Tim clips the tie on--because _naturally_ it would be a clip-on--and says with a wry twist of a smile, “She said she couldn’t find a Halloween tie ugly enough.”

Damian pinches the bridge of his nose. “What exactly was this bet about?”

Tim gives the office a surreptitious once over before leaning in to whisper, “At the end of patrol last week, she bet me I wouldn’t be able to beat her back to the Batcave on the Red Bird.” He retreats--completely missing Damian’s poorly suppressed shiver--to continue at a normal volume, “I was running on thirty-six hours of no sleep, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. If I’d won, she’d have to stop posting embarrassing pictures of me on Instagram.”

“You’re an idiot,” Damian points out, choosing to ignore his embarrassing reaction to Drake’s warm breath at his ear.

“Fuck off,” Drake says lightly, though he clearly agrees, giving his glitter-dusted Armani suit a chagrined look. Father passes by, sees Drake, sighs, and keeps on walking without a word.

“Are you really planning on going to the meeting like that?” Damian asks.

“A promise is a promise. Besides, if I chicken out now, she’ll only come up with a worse forfeit.”

A few minutes later, Damian has to give it to Drake--he has an excellent poker face. He walks into the boardroom as if nothing’s out of the ordinary and settles at the head of the table, a study in indifference with subtle undertones of boredom. Damian struggles not to laugh at the constipated looks on the faces of stuffy old board members who obviously want to say something but can’t work up the nerve to tell the CEO that he looks like a tool. As per Stephanie’s request, Damian sneaks a few pictures _"for the 'Gram"._

Despite the entertainment of their entrance, the rest of the meeting is torturously dull. As he’s only supposed to be there to shadow Drake, he isn’t allowed to contribute so he’s pretending to take notes while he absentmindedly sketches Drake in his stupid tie. He’s trying to capture the annoyed slant of his lips when rising voices pull his attention back to the discussion.

“The Green Gotham Initiative is a money pit! It’s a net loss no matter what way you look at it,” blusters a man who jabs a ringed finger onto the table belligerently.

This offends an older man further down, “The Wayne Foundation has more than enough donors to cover initial costs.”

“Now, now, perhaps there’s an opportunity for generating revenue here we’ve yet to explore,” says a woman, sparking another round of arguing.

Amidst the bickering, Drake slowly rises out of his chair like a shark. Heavy silence falls. Leaning forward with his hands on the table, he looks distinctly unimpressed. His steely eyes make contact with every man and woman there and they all seem to shrink back into their chairs.

“That’s enough of that,” Drake says with a practiced smile. It’s not a statement, it’s an _order_ , given with complete confidence that it will be obeyed. “Now, while I appreciate the...bravery some of you have shown in voicing your misgivings about a matter that was settled months ago, I would like to remind everyone that the Green Gotham Initiative has received widespread public support and to derail it now would be disastrous for the Wayne name. Not to mention the amount of emotional investment _Bruce_ has put into this project. But if you'd like to put the idea to him that he shouldn't go ahead because there’s not enough _money_ , well, be my guest.”

The room is quiet but for the uncomfortable shifting of very rich people in their $900 ergonomic chairs.

“The Initiative will go forward as planned,” says Drake with an edge of finality. He arches an eyebrow. “Any objections?”

There are none.

Damian watches the way Drake commands the room with confused awe. This...isn’t the Drake he’s used to. This is Red Robin but _more_ , somehow. Damian swallows, feeling suddenly warm. Unnerved, he drops his eyes to his notepad and tuts at what he sees. He’s gotten Drake’s expression all wrong. Although he has a feeling it may be beyond his abilities as an artist to fully capture the intensity that had just moments ago transformed features Damian thought he’d known well into those of a man he barely recognizes.

When he glances up, his breath catches to find Drake looking back at him. Ice blue eyes snag him like a fish on a line and any moment now he’s going to be reeled in, he’s going to embarrass himself by crawling over the table to get to Drake and drop into his lap like a fucking tart and-

His pencil slips out of his slack fingers and clatters to the floor. Reflexively, he looks down for it and he's snapped out of... _whatever the hell_ was just happening to him. When he’s retrieved the errant pencil and feels calm enough to look at Drake again, it’s both a relief and a disappointment that the man’s attention has moved on.

Damian closes his notepad with shaking hands. What the fuck was that? Did he really just…? Over _Drake?_

He takes stock of himself. His heartbeat is elevated. His skin is overwarm. He feels lightheaded. 

His fucking _neck_ is _throbbing_. 

No, no, no. This cannot be happening.

Hoping to look up and see an insufferable, weak, mess of a man he knows, he’s horrified to see a Drake that is suddenly... _attractive_. Nothing about him has changed physically and he looks the same as he always has, but it’s like a switch has been flipped that has Damian seeing him in a new light. A light that’s making him very hot under the collar.

And he’s still wearing that _stupid tie._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said before that this was going to be a 4 chapter fic at most, but I guess I lied oops. idk how many chapters it will end up being, but it'll be more than 5, less than 10.

Damian is avoiding him. 

At first, Tim isn’t sure he’s not just imagining it. Because yeah, the kid had bailed on the whole shadowing him at W.E. thing...but Bruce had originally forced both of them into that so it’s not really surprising. And it’s suspicious that Damian is nowhere to be found at mealtimes whenever Tim stays over at the Manor...but Damian’s always had a habit of skipping meals to train so that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

But when they run into each other on patrol and Damian literally jumps off a building to avoid talking to him, there’s no denying it anymore.

Damian is avoiding him.

Tim doesn’t want to admit that it bothers him, but it does. Their relationship has always been strained, to say the least, but they’ve been mostly civil for years now. And to suddenly be on sorta-not-speaking terms again chafes. Especially because he has _no idea_ what he did to warrant this freeze out.

It _irritates_ him, not knowing. 

Was it something Tim did? Said? Is Damian still pissed about him stealing the last of Alfred’s banana pancakes at breakfast last month? 

...Or has Damian simply decided, once again, that Tim’s an embarrassment to the family, a weakling not even deserving of a hello?

He...hopes it isn’t the last one. Because while they may not be friends, Tim thinks he finally has the brat’s respect after all these years fighting alongside each other. And he's horrified to realize he really doesn't want to lose that hard-won respect. It _means_ something to him, apparently. So if Damian’s going to put Tim back on his shit list, Tim would at least like to know _why._

When he tries to pin Damian down to confront him about it, however, the slippery little punk dodges him at every turn. He flees every room Tim enters, stays over at Jon’s when Tim comes home, asks for a patrol route on the opposite side of the city as Tim’s. The others are worried that their old animosities have made a comeback and when they ask Tim what’s going on between them, he can’t say that everything’s fine, because he doesn’t know if it is. 

Infuriatingly, an investigation of Damian’s bedroom and his cave locker and his school bag--even Batcow’s stable out back--tells him nothing except that his brother must know Tim is looking because everything is just a little _too_ clean. But _that_ tells him that Damian _is_ hiding something. He just can't figure out _what_.

And it’s just so _annoying_ because Damian shouldn’t be a mystery to Tim. He’s got every member of the family figured out. He knows what they’re going to do before they do, he knows what brand of shampoo they prefer, he knows who prefers cream cheese on their bagel, who prefers butter, and who can’t have bagels anymore because of a newly developed gluten intolerance. 

But Damian... Tim hates to admit that he’s never fully understood Damian because he never really tried, beyond figuring out whether or not he was plotting to kill them all and take over the world. But now that they’re sorta-brothers, Tim should be making more of an effort. 

He is abashed to realize he has no idea if Damian even _likes_ bagels.

Despite his determination to get to the bottom of the mystery known as Damian, Tim never manages to get the drop on him. But then, completely by accident, after _weeks_ of trying to corner him, Tim finally gets him alone in the kitchen at five in the morning. He’s just come off patrol, sneaking upstairs to get a fresh pot going because he’s got to be in the office in two hours and there’s no way he'll make it through the day without staggering amounts of caffeine in his system. When Tim creeps into the kitchen, hoping to avoid Alfred, he sees Damian standing barefoot in front of the microwave and falters to a stop. Frozen, Damian stares at him like a deer in headlights, hands clutched around a bowl of reheated risotto. He must have gotten back before Tim because he’s already changed into loose sweatpants and...and nothing else. 

Tim feels himself blush when he realizes he’s staring. Like a creep. With far too much difficulty, he wrenches his eyes from the teasing vee of _his little brother’s_ bare stomach and vehemently reminds himself that he is very much _not_ a creep. 

He's only staring because he hasn't seen the kid in a while. It has nothing to do with the fact that those sweatpants are hanging _very_ low on his hips or that he’s pretty sure Damian isn’t wearing underwear. 

(His neck itches and he resists the urge to scratch.)

A beat passes in which neither of them speak. Damian’s mouth works for a moment, brow wrinkled the way it does when he’s about to say something bratty. But then he makes eye contact with Tim and quickly looks away, eyelashes fluttering, a warm flush stealing across his cheeks. 

_‘Shit when did Damian get so pretty?’_ Tim thinks. And then is appalled to have thought it. What’s the _matter_ with him? 

“No capes in the house,” is all Damian says after an awkward pause, nodding at Tim's Red Robin suit.

“No late night snacking,” Tim counters when he’s pulled his eyes back into his head, wishing he'd kept the mask on to conceal their wandering.

“Pennyworth put aside a bowl for me because I missed dinner.”

Ah, that’s right. Damian’s _been avoiding him_. That’s what he needs to be focusing on, not Damian’s stupidly perfect abs.

“And _why_ did you miss dinner?” Tim steps closer, noting the way Damian tenses at the proximity. “You’ve missed a lot of meals lately.”

“Tt. I am not _missing_ meals. Unlike you, _I_ understand the importance of practicing healthy eating habits.” He takes a pointed bite of risotto. A creamy grain catches on his full lower lip and the pink tip of a tongue sneaks out to catch it, leaving the lip wet and shining.

Tim imagines chasing that tongue with his own and-

No no no no _no._ He’s stopping that line of thinking right there because this is _Damian_ and he is _not_ a creep, dammit.

….But like, _why isn’t he wearing underwear?_

He tries to collect himself. “Fine, you’re not missing meals. But…” Tim struggles to get a grasp on his point while his mind's stalled on his brother’s state of undress. And then he remembers that Damian’s apparently written him off and the frustration of the last few weeks quickly supersedes everything else.

“You’re avoiding eating with us. Because you’re avoiding _me,_ ” he accuses. “I want to know _why_ , Damian. _”_

Not meeting his eyes, Damian scoffs, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tim feels a small spark of annoyance and clings to it. Because Annoyed-At-Damian makes sense and is safe and more importantly is not Getting-A-Semi-For-Damian.

He stares the younger man down and says sharply, “Yes. You _do."_

Damian shivers, eyes half-lidded. “Yes, I do,” he breathes. 

And then he goes deathly still, staring at Tim with alarm and some other complicated emotion Tim can't put a name to. Damian jerks back, looking everywhere but at him. “I’m--I'm going to bed,” he blurts and tries to sneak past, still clutching the bowl of leftover risotto like a life line.

Before he can get more than three steps away, Tim catches him by the shoulder. He’s expecting his hand to be slapped away, not for Damian to abruptly stop in his tracks like his feet have been welded to the ground. That's when he notices that the kid’s breathing is shaky and uneven. His muscles are tight and hard under Tim’s fingers. 

Okay, now Tim’s annoyed _and_ concerned.

“Would you just tell me what’s up with you? And don’t say it’s nothing, because there’s obviously something going on.”

“Tt. It _is_ noth-”

_“Damian.”_

A small _needy_ noise leaves Damian’s throat and goes straight to Tim’s traitorous cock. He snatches his hand away like he's been burned. 

That… He had to have imagined that, right? Because Damian Wayne definitely does _not_ make kittenish sex noises at Tim in the middle of Alfred’s kitchen. _Right?_

Taking advantage of Tim's distraction, Damian makes a break for the door, the sneaky shit. Weeks of frustration over Damian (combined with a frustration of a _different kind_ currently wreaking havoc with his body) turns into real anger. All he wants to know is why in the hell Damian suddenly can’t stand to be in the same room as him!

Just as Damian reaches the door, Tim snaps, “Would you just _stop?_ ”

Damian freezes.

Missing the way Damian’s shoulders slump in defeat, Tim sighs, “Okay, look, Damian. You’ve clearly got some kind of problem with me-- _again--_ and I don’t really appreciate being treated like a leper in my own sort-of-home. Normally this is where we avoid each other until the tension reaches a boiling point and one of us puts the other in the hospital. But I think we’re both too old for this Real Housewives shit, so spill. Just fucking tell me what I did to piss you off this time. I'd really like to get all the bloodshed over with now and be done with it.”

Damian is quiet for so long that Tim thinks he’s just going to ignore him and run away again. But then Damian lets out a miserable sigh and drops his forehead against the closed door with a _thunk._ It’s so out of character that all Tim can do is stare, anger flagging.

“I do not have a problem with _you_ ,” Damian eventually mumbles to the door. “This problem is of a--a private nature.”

“What kind of-”

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

Tim frowns. “So what does this private problem have to do with me?”

Damian’s shoulders tense. “It’s nothing you’ve done. I am not angry with you.” Almost too quietly to hear, he mumbles, “If anything I’m more frustrated with myself.”

“But you’re only avoiding _me,”_ Tim says, crossing his arms. “You’re not acting weird around Dick or Jason or anyone else--it’s just me.”

“It was not my intent to make you uncomfortable," Damian says stiffly, "I will behave more normally from now on.”

“Okay...but can you just tell me why-”

“It’s nothing you’ve done,” Damian repeats. “I have it handled, Drake. _Please_ let it go.”

The shock of hearing Damian say _please_ distracts him long enough for Damian to finally escape. But Tim's suddenly feeling tired and confused, so he doesn't follow. He can’t tell if Damian was lying when he said that Tim hasn’t done anything to cause this weirdness between them, but he’s at least sure now that Damian doesn’t hate him, isn’t even mad at him. Which means Tim's in the clear.

But even if it's not Tim's fault, there's still _something_ making Damian uncomfortable around him.

Damian would probably be pissed if he offered to help with whatever it is and he clearly doesn't want Tim butting in. But what's with all the secrecy? Maybe Tim should press for more information--what if this is something Bat-related, or Talia's been in touch, or Damian's killed someone and doesn’t want to be around Tim because he’d see right through him-

No, he shouldn’t go there. He can't expect Damian’s respect when he can’t even give him the benefit of the doubt. Tim has to trust that whatever it is, Damian has it handled.

Damian says it’s private. Tim should respect that. He should leave it alone. Like Damian asked.

After all, he'd said _please_.

But days later Tim still can't stop thinking about the way Damian had shivered under his hand and wonders what it all means.


	4. Chapter 4

The roar of the Batmobile’s engine isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of Damian’s heartbeat, thudding painfully in his ears, a soldier’s march in his chest. Adrenaline and fear are making him dizzy. Hopefully not too dizzy to drive because there’s a thorny rose vine sticking out of the autopilot button.

A deep groan from the backseat makes him tense.

“R-Rob--Dami--where-” Drake says between gasping breaths. Damian’s hands clench around the steering wheel.

“We’re en route to the Cave, Red Robin. You will be home soon.” It’s not much of a comfort, but it’s all Damian can offer when he’s teetering on the edge of panic himself. All the others are still fighting Ivy. This new strain of pollen is affecting Drake more than it should. And Damian’s attention is dangerously split between the road and the screen displaying the biometrics of the Red Robin suit, watching Drake’s heart rate go up and up and up…

They arrive screeching into the cave and Damian leaps out of the driver’s seat before the car's fully stopped moving. While he struggles to carry the insensate man out of the backseat, he thinks about his next step. It will take time to synthesize a new antidote, so the first thing he needs to do is sedate Drake so Damian can start the process. And it is imperative he starts quickly. The entire East Side of the city is currently quarantined because of this dangerous new pollen. It activates the mark of anyone who inhales it, which means that they’d had to fight through scores of rabid Gothamites in order to get to Ivy. Drake will not be the only one depending on this antidote.

Heaving a mumbling Drake onto a gurney, Damian removes his predecessor's rebreather and goes to find the strongest sedative he can safely administer. He'd already hit him with a tranquilizer during the fight, but it hadn't taken him down. Inexplicable, as it had worked on all the others. He’s already beginning to recover, so Damian needs to work quickly. 

When he returns to Drake’s side, the man’s eyes are open, piercing blue almost visible through the mask’s white lenses. Damian approaches with caution. 

“Steady, Red Robin. I need to assess your condition. When I am finished, I will give you something to help you sleep.”

Drake is silent as Damian gently peels off his domino. Without that barrier, his gaze burns through Damian, even hazy as it is. Damian wills his penlight to stay steady as he shines it into the other man's eyes. Suddenly, a hand shoots up to grab his wrist. The grip is iron and he can’t pull free.

“Drake, let go,” he cajoles over the sound of his own thunderous heartbeat. “You are not well. Let me go.”

The way Drake is looking at him, the animal _want_ in his expression, obliterates every last thought in Damian’s head until the world narrows down to those winter blue eyes.

“I...you...” Drake says in a weak voice. His pupils expand. “Dami…”

Damian pulls uselessly. “Damn it, Drake! I am trying to help you, unhand me at once!”

“Dami...an...I...want…”

“Drake-”

“I want…” His voice gains strength, he seems to radiate heat. “...you...want _you_ …”

An embarrassing noise emerges from the back of Damian’s throat. His fingers dig into the pressure points of Drake’s hand until its grip loosens enough for him to wrench free. As soon as he’s liberated, he scrambles to grab the syringe with the sedative. He spins around with it in his hand and sees that Drake has moved into a sitting position. Breathing harshly. Looking wild.

He growls lowly, _“Damian.”_

And Damian’s knees buckle. Gasping, he catches the edge of the medical utility cart in an effort to steady himself, the force of his movement sending trays of gauze and needles to the floor with a resounding clatter.

Slowly, Drake slips his legs off the gurney. His feet touch the ground with barely a sound. He stalks forward like a lion on the hunt. Damian has the sedative in his hand. Drake’s reflexes are impaired. It would be the work of a second to take him down. He knows this. And yet he doesn’t move. He can't.

“Why...why am I…?” Damian pants, alarmed beyond measure. Because he shouldn’t be reacting this way. His mark hasn’t been touched. Drake is not an Alpha.

Drake comes to a stop in front of him.

_“Kneel.”_

Damian crashes to his knees. He barely notices the pain through the overwhelming shock of arousal that tears through him. Light headed, he wobbles but doesn’t fall and forces himself to look up at the man before him. Drake stares back with naked hunger and when Damian shudders, it’s not entirely out of fear.

What will happen now? Will Drake throw him to the ground and claim him? What is wrong with Damian that the thought sends a shiver of anticipation down his spine?

_“Get up.”_

He can do nothing but comply. As soon as Damian’s vertical, Drake’s eyes flash and, snarling, he grabs his little brother by the waist, throwing him onto the gurney in a surprising show of strength that leaves the younger man breathless. Before the shout of surprise has finished leaving Damian's lips, he's pinned down, Drake’s mouth on him, hot and bruising.

He jerks away long enough to gasp, “Get _off_ me, Drake! Get--oh--fuck-” 

He moans as Drake kisses him again. The last remaining rational part of his brain, the part that is desperately fending off the feeling of _yes, finally_ urging him to submit, thinks: _This is very bad._ Because it feels like a missing piece of him has slotted into place.

Drake twitches at Damian’s pleas, like he’s trying to fight it, too, but he doesn’t stop. He bites Damian’s lip hard enough to draw blood and twists his pinned wrist. Damian arches into the pain.

But the pain also brings clarity. He cannot let himself be dragged under. He cannot allow this to happen, this thing that will damage their relationship forever. And he imagines he can feel Drake’s dangerously quick pulse against his skin. That’s enough to give him the strength to stab the needle he’s miraculously not dropped into Drake’s thigh. 

He swallows a cry of misery forced upon him by his every instinct rebelling against hurting his...his…

His Alpha.

His _brother,_ he corrects frantically. His _purple-marked, non-Alpha brother._ The words feel wrong, but Damian clings to them because any other option is unthinkable.

The body above him goes limp, crushing him to the gurney. He catches his breath as the last of the instinctive compulsion drains away with Drake unconscious. When his head is clear again, he feels foolish and ashamed. He wants nothing more than to flee to his room upstairs, but he has to at least make sure Drake isn’t going to die first. So he slides out from under the dead weight, shakily does the bare minimum required to keep Drake from flatlining, then calls Alfred on the intercom, trusting him to take care of both Drake and the antidote himself.

When he retreats to his room, he burrows into his bed and resists the urge to relieve the pressure in his groin for all of five seconds. Sated, he falls into a restless sleep, dreaming of heat and the color blue.


End file.
